nostalgia

If you have time listen to this Animal Collective track as you read. They're touring Australia in December.

Animal Collective - Winters Love

On we press:

The shopfront window of a Surry Hills-based design company. Yes, those are toy cars in front of the sign...that's lateral thinking like a bon-bon in bachelor's briefs.

I revisited Esther Lane after my previous post. That first print installation was a bit worse for wear, but now has some company in the form of a sprayed on man-profile. Funny though. It's meant to be symmetrical, but is as balanced as an overdose.

And in my nostalgia i crept back to the Ray Hughes Gallery. I decided to see what the building's exterior looked like, then i thought "oh snap, there's paintings of Darlinghurst people!"

In my elation i realised the artist/s that created the following series, like, think outside the cabbage patch. They blend their subject into the surrounding environment so well - as we see with the "mouth" positioned on the face of this thigh-high wearing hooker silhouette.

The average stallion's non-erect phallus is 50cm in length. While mating, the stallion's wang will harden to DOUBLE the length and probably scare the shit out of you, causing you to lapse into a coma. Hours after you wake you'll still be trying to find your wife.

So, in this image, does Eros' bastard angel-child "bridge the missing link" in men and women's erotic journey? I think the inversely positioned halo and curling cock of the subject attest to that. Or that the chain isn't actually joined signals that men and women are irreconcilably different - and completely fucked, in love.

This follows the theme of life, love and the link that joins us all. White people.

Dear Artist,

I desperately appreciate your subject matter - life - and the raw means you use to convey your love of birth, a woman's bond with her child and the mystery of abandonment. Cause, like, where's the asshole father here? Are you being cryptic? Is the stallion angel the father? Will you teach me all you know, with your wise words whispered to the harmony of a thousand orgasms?

Love always,

Omar

Oooh, what's that in the bottem-left corner of the frame?

It's beautiful. A canary yellow splash of mid-labour placenta, dotted with pretty black butterflies. It's a nice touch to this piece because it's unexpected. It's spontaneous, and that, dear lovers, is what makes life so special. Hold on, I need some tissues for my pretentiousness.

"Loading Dock: No Parking. If you ignore this sign you must face the wrath of a hundred upside-down fanny mounds. Fluoro options available."

This is the front entry to the Brett Whiteley Studio. It's a must-see if you're in the area. It's a goldmine. Currently they've got the Iconic Whiteley exhibition, so if you like 'three dimensional' painted panels (i.e. a vagina is carved into a woman's painted body) and Dali-esque sculptures then this is for you.

We've seen this thumb man before on Baptist St, Surry Hills. The artist has chosen to increase the value of real estate on Rainford St by creating another three thumbs. This one is good-looking and i'd probably stick it in my mouth as i cry myself to sleep, wishing my mother could sing me one last lullaby.

On a point of note, the thumb is so viscerally powerful that its mere gaze illuminates the model. She is the only figure in this frame not masked in shadow.

Another thumb man. This one has a large forehead, signalling a definite need for lube. Nothing worse than a thumb half-jarred up your ass, no?

sightings part III

Found this installation of photographic prints on a rendered wall along Esther Lane, Surry Hills. The glue has soaked through the paper, which actually blended it well with the stained wall. It's signed "Work by Johnny, Feel Too Good". Yes i feel great too. Maybe you didn't and that's why there's a chunk of cement knocked out of the wall, removed by your beautiful forehead.

Oooh i'm playing Siriusmo, so good in my earphones. This old warehouse-cum-gallery is adjacent to the above image. It's the Ray Hughes Gallery, a private collection of contemporary art set within the musky smell of fresh paint and hipster farts. It's beautiful even if you're not into art.

The next four images are a series of graffiti works on Violet and Whittell Sts that rocked my socks. I'd just been to Bourke St Bakery and, croissants in hand, snapped this hatted French man, beside which floated a turquoise skull. The black/white/khaki colour scheme works well with the surrounding environment. I'd say the skull was painted by a leecher-on.

Boner time. This is probably one of He-Man's concubines as she hunts down Skeletor or, um, Megatron. Either way the artist's African heroine meets Baywatch babe idea was pure genius. If this gun-toting slut were made into a figurine, well, none of us would be painting walls and writing blogs.

Way cool alert: this spade-handed psychedelic geisha is about to FUCK SOMEONE UP.

"Mr Writer man, hand over those delicious croissants or i shall fuck you up with my green-as-envy spades. Come now, don't make me rrrepeat myself."

I was down at the bakery again before lunch. To the artist - you owe me breakfast. DON'T MAKE ME RRREPEAT MYSELF.

This graffiti piece is way longer than it looks. Dear readers, the iPhone was not made for anything more than Facebook poses and drunken sex-snaps grrr. Without a wide-angle lens i had to stand on one side and use the power of perspective to include the entire piece. The colour choice is punk at best (which is still great) but i suppose for the words to stand out the background must be dark. Still, props to the artist, it was much needed respite after the spading i received earlier.

sightings part II

Chapter two of my crispy photographic musings:

Outside the Stables Theatre in Darlighurst, during the intermission of References to Salvador Dali Make Me Hot. It was a really moving performance. Until I realised the actors weren't actually Puerto Rican.

Beware of fucking hipster rubber duckies. They'll sneak up you without even a squeak, then WHAM! they dip their head in your ass and it's all over.

It's so nice to walk home from Central station after a long day at work, then read graffiti that's actually thoughtful. Fucking hippie hipsters.

I found this chalk drawing on Oxford St last night. It's hard to translate the meaning - is it two turtles in a river, between a mountain or dodging boomerangs? Is it meant to be ironic, having these symbols on a seedy sidewalk in the convict's city? Was it just drawn for spare change? Fucking indigenous hipsters.

A pair of hipsters flash their "way Spartan" dinosaur door stamps before seeing Metronomy at Oxford Art Factory last night. I got the girl's number while her boyfriend was in the 7-Eleven.